Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  For the next two days Jeff remained in camp, staying off his feet as much as he could. He didn’t like being idle, he never had, and it was worse now because it gave him too much time to think. He did as much as he could around camp to help out, but the need to allow his feet to mend limited him in the tasks he could perform. On the evening of the third day, Gordon announced they would ride to town the next morning, and from one of the packs he produced an old pair of boots. Handing them to Jeff he said, “They’re worn, but you’ll need something to wear to town. Your feet are looking a sight better now. How do they feel?”

  “A sight better. I can walk with hardly any pain.”

  “Must be Billy’s salve,” said Gordon with a wink.

  Billy looked up from his cooking long enough to shoot Gordon a quick, hostile glance.

  Jeff took the boots and pulled them on his tender feet. They were too big but he could buy some extra socks when he got a job. He was grateful for something to wear on his feet besides rabbit skins. He stood up and walked around in a circle.

  “That right foot still looks pretty sore,” observed Gordon, noticing Jeff’s limp.

  Jeff merely nodded, preferring not to discuss his bad knee.

  He had a hard time getting to sleep that night. With the combination of good food and rest, strength had returned and he was impatient to do something. He would need to find work and a place to stay. He even considered the possibility of asking about a job at the Circle M, where Gordon and Billy worked. He would get Gordon’s views on that tomorrow. He fell asleep thinking about Anne.

  Jeff woke suddenly, not sure what had awakened him. For a moment he lay still in the darkness, listening to the sounds around him. He sensed it was early morning, and a quick glance at the top of the mountains to the east proved him right.

  Gordon and Billy appeared to be asleep still, and at first he could neither see nor hear anything out of the ordinary in the camp. He lay unmoving lest his own rustling should mask any faint sounds that might come to his ears. He heard a scuffing sound, like a boot on a rock, directly south of him, then another sound, like a twig snapping, to the west. He rolled over and whispered, “Gordon.”

  “I know,” came the faint whisper back.

  They slid out of their bed-rolls, walking silently on stocking feet. Gordon leaned over Billy who awoke with a start.

  “What?” Billy whispered in manifest alarm, “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got company out there,” whispered Gordon.

  “Indians?”

  “I don’t think so; too noisy.”

  By this time Jeff had his boots on and his pistol in his hand and was listening intently to the sounds that seemed to be all around them. He agreed with Gordon—they were too noisy to be Indians, but whoever they were they had the three men surrounded.

  “Let’s get saddled up. Now!” said Billy. It was light enough now for Jeff to see his face, distorted with fear.

  “No,” said Jeff, “they have us surrounded, “we’ll never make it out that way. Let’s try to slip down the wash on foot, before it gets too light. We may be able to sneak past them.”

  Gordon made evident his agreement with Jeff’s plan by moving hurriedly in the direction of the wash. Billy and Jeff followed close behind. They were about 50 yards away from camp, when Gordon halted abruptly and held up his hand, signaling the two men behind to stop. As they listened they heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs in the soft sand of the wash bed. Jeff caught movement to the right, and then to the left of them.

  “I knew we should’ve taken the horses,” hissed Billy. “Let’s go back and get ‘em. We won’t saddle up, we’ll ride bareback.”

  “No,” said Gordon, speaking now in a normal voice. “They’ve got us surrounded. It’s too light anyway; there’s no way we could get out without them seeing us. You know it’s Hank and the boys.”

  Billy wheeled and ran wildly up the wash toward the camp. Jeff turned to Gordon. “You know who it is?”

  “Yeah,” said Gordon, “we know who it is. I’m sorry you had to get caught in this with us, kid. Come on back and meet the boys.”

  When they returned to the camp, there were three men there holding rifles on Billy, who was sitting on a rock cradling his head in his hands.

  Two of the men turned and leveled their rifles at Gordon and Jeff.

  “Hello boys,” said Gordon.

  One of the men replied, “Howdy Gord.” Just then the rider who had been behind them in the wash arrived.

  Jeff turned around, but Gordon didn’t move. “That you, Hank?” he asked in a pleasant tone.

  “Mornin’ Gord, Billy,” the man said in a conversational voice, “who’s your new pard?”

  “He ain’t a pard,” said Gordon.

  The man Gordon called Hank pulled out his pistol and fired a shot in the air. He bellowed, “Come on in boys, the gang’s all here.” Hank dismounted. He was a powerfully built, barrel-chested man of medium height. Something in his bearing told Jeff that Hank was the leader of this group.

  Billy was still sitting on the rock, breathing heavy, his eyes wide with fear. Over the next five minutes four more men arrived, all armed with carbines and pistols, all on foot. Jeff studied their faces and learned who they were, but nothing else. They were the kind of men who could be found on any honest cattle ranch: hard working and hard living. Men whose skin and muscles had long ago been whipped to leather toughness by sun, wind, rain and the life they led. But they were men who loved to laugh, and the camaraderie they shared with one another and the respect they gave and received were the distilled essence of their code of honor. Yet Jeff thought he had never seen a more somber group of men. These were all cow punchers, but there was none of the customary teasing or joking, or even conversation among them other than an occasional muttered comment. In view of the circumstances Jeff could think of only one reason for this, and the thought sent a chill through him.

  When the last two men arrived together, Hank asked them, “Check the herd?” One of them, a small-framed, wiry man with a handlebar mustache too large for his face, and an enormous wad of tobacco in one cheek, nodded and said, “We checked ‘em.” He glanced at Gordon casually as if this meeting were an everyday occurrence.

  “Mornin’ Gord.”

  “Mornin’ Cracker, I’d offer you some coffee-but . . .” he shrugged.

  “Offer me some.”

  Gordon looked at Hank, expectantly.

  Hank looked down at his boots for a moment as if undecided, then muttered, “Make some coffee.” He looked at Cracker, “Well?”

  Cracker shifted his chew to the other cheek. “They’re ours. Brands have been changed. Artful job too.” He shot a glance at Gordon, who looked up and smiled thinly.

  Billy raised his head and said plaintively, “You ain’t going to believe this, boys, but them beeves was already here. We rode in yesterday, been off huntin’ and we found this empty camp. I think we scared off the rustlers. We was going to . . .”

  “Quit it, Billy,” snapped Hank. “Don’t make this harder.”

  Billy sagged as if he had been shot, and putting his head in his hands again he began softly weeping. There was a nervous shuffling among the men. Jeff’s guts were clenched in a tight knot. He knew the law of the range; Gordon and Billy were rustlers. They had been caught, and they would be hanged. He was in their camp, and he had eaten their meat. He would be hanged with them. He knew it was pointless to explain he was not a rustler, and had had no part in this operation: the evidence was circumstantial, but it was strong.

  “Mud’s ready,” announced Gordon, sounding cheerful despite the circumstances. Cracker expelled a short, quick laugh and there were a few soft chuckles among the men.

  “I ain’t had mud since last time you made it for me,” said Cracker.

  “If you complain like you did then, I ain’t going to make it for you again,” said Gordon, grinning. This was followed by more shuffling.

  “I ain’t got enough cups for all
you boys.”

  “Carlos, Johnny, bring the horses,” directed Hank.

  Two men left and returned a few minutes later leading several horses, by which time Gordon had two pots of coffee boiling on the fire. It was almost full-light now and the coffee smell made Jeff’s stomach growl. Cups were produced from saddle-bags; the coffee was poured and passed around in silence.

  As Gordon sat sipping his coffee, a smile spread over his face. “Hey, Cracker, you remember that time . . .”

  “No,” snapped Cracker, breaking the quiet mood like a whip crack. Billy started violently and spilled hot coffee on his hands.

  “No, I don’t remember no times,” shouted Cracker, “and don’t do this. What’s got to be done has got to be done. Don’t make it harder. His indignation shone in his eyes and tightened his jaw muscles. “This ain’t our fault!” he hurled the words at Gordon. He kicked the campfire scattering coals and coffee pots. His finger stabbed the air in Gordon’s direction. “You did this, Gord, not us. You did it!” He turned and walked away a few paces, breathing heavily. For a time he stood looking at the top of the mountain as the first golden darts pierced the post-dawn grayness, then he sat down on a rock, his back to the group of silent, standing men.

  As if this were a sign to proceed. Hank said quietly, “Get the ropes, boys.”

  Billy let out a piteous wail, “No, please, no, no, no.”

  Gordon walked over and gently laid a hand on Billy’s shoulder.

  “Old pard,” he said, “don’t do this. You’re cashin’ your chips today. You can do it tough or you can do it whinin’. Either way it’s going to happen. Remember what I always told you about life?”

  “Take ‘er as she comes,” murmured Cracker to himself, in a tone of deep irony.

  “Take ‘er as she comes,” said Gordon, unaware of Cracker’s muttered comment. “These boys will always remember this day and sometimes they’ll talk about it over grub and coffee. It’d be nice if they could say, “Old Billy Dell, he was a no good rustler, but he went out like a man.”

  Gordon’s words had a noticeable effect on Billy, for which the men were grateful. They dreaded the job they were about to do and to have Billy weeping and begging would have made it infinitely more difficult.

  “Any business you boys need to take care of?” asked Hank.

  Billy shook his head.

  Gordon said, “There’s a letter to my sister in my saddle-bag, everything’s there.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Hank.

  “Hank,” said Gordon, “she was always afraid I was going to get killed fightin’ Indians. I was her baby brother, she sorta raised me. It’d break her heart to know I was hanged for rustlin’.”

  “I’ll take care of it, for you Gord. She’ll be proud of you.”

  “Thanks Hank, you always was square,” then he added, “there’s one other thing that’s real important to me. This here is Mr. Bob Webb.” He nodded toward Jeff. “He didn’t have anything to do with rustlin’. He come out of the mountains four days ago, near starved to death, he never even knew we was rustlers. We lied to him and told him we worked for the Circle M.”

  “Gord, you know how it works,” said Hank in a firm but not unkindly tone. “You know what we have to do.”

  “Hank, listen to me, he’s innocent. Listen, did I try to talk you out of hangin’ me or Billy? Yes I know what you have to do. You have to hang rustlers. You’re always doing everything the boss says. You always follow orders, and I ain’t saying that’s wrong; I reckon if I’d been more like you, I wouldn’t be in this fix. But sometimes you got to think for yourself, Hank, you got to use your own mind and listen to your own conscience. In a few minutes, I’ll be dead. There ain’t no power on earth that’ll stop you from hangin’ me and Billy. Lord knows we got it comin’. But there’s some black spots on my soul, that right about now I wish I could wash off. I can’t undo the things I’ve done. But Hank, you know I’ve never killed a man that didn’t deserve killin’. The way I was brought up, I was taught that sheddin’ innocent blood was the worst sin a man could commit.”

  “Gord, quit!” said Hank. “Just quit it. You know how it works. We caught three men in a rustler’s camp, and we’ve got to string ‘em up. It’s just the way it is.”

  Cracker interrupted. He nodded at Jeff. “Hank, he’s not a rustler.”

  “How do you know he’s not?” Hank demanded angrily.

  “Gordie said so.”

  “Gordie’s a rustler, a horse thief, a card cheat and . . .”

  “I know what Gordie is,” interrupted Cracker, “and I know what he ain’t, Hank. He was my pard. I rode with him, and even so I ain’t asking you not to hang him. But I know when he’s lyin’ and I know when he’s tellin’ the truth. Right now he’s tellin’ the truth.”

  “And you ain’t in charge here,” Hank pointed out, a quick flush of anger rising to his face.

  “I know that,” conceded Cracker. “But just listen Hank, I’m not askin’ you to let him go free. I’m just askin’ you to let the boss decide. We’ll take him back and we’ll let Jim handle it.”

  Hank seemed less sure of himself now. “Jim told me . . .”

  “I know what Jim told you,” interrupted Cracker, “Don’t I do what Jim says, too? Don’t I follow orders? But it’s like Gordie says; a man’s got his own conscience and his own mind. We can take him back, and explain everything to Jim. Then if you and Jim want to hang him, well then you and Jim can hang him. And me and the rest of the boys won’t have to think about him before we go to sleep every night and wonder did we kill an innocent man.”

  At this mention of the “boys” Hank looked at the men around him as if realizing, for the first time, they may be affected by his decision. A few heads nodded in agreement with Cracker’s words.

  Hank looked at Jeff, back to Cracker, then down at the ground, shaking his head in disgust. “Alright, but tie him up.”

  Gordon said, “Thanks, Hank.”

  Hank nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Gordon turned to face Cracker—a need in his eyes. A long, hushed moment elapsed as the two men stood looking at each other. Then, Cracker gave a slight nod. Gordon seemed satisfied. A soft smile briefly twitched at the corners of his mouth and he turned back to face Hank; it was time.

  The men of the Circle M did what they had come to do. Gordon smiled and joked casually to the end. Billy wept unabashedly, and became weak kneed, so that he had to be helped onto his horse, but he did not wail or plead for his life.

  When it was over, the men were silent.

  Hank said quietly, “All right, it’s over; let’s ride.”

  “Not yet,” Cracker said. Pulling his knife, he cut the two bodies down.

  “Boss said to leave ‘em hangin’,” murmured Hank in a tone that indicated he had already accepted defeat in this new argument.

  Ignoring Hank’s comment, Cracker spoke again, a distinct quaver in his voice, “Anybody going to help me?”

  The men looked expectantly at Hank. They respected him and were accustomed to obeying his orders, and he was a strong leader, accustomed to being obeyed. Hank stood watching as Cracker cut the ropes that held Gordon’s hands behind his back. He rolled the dead man onto his back, brushed some dirt off of his face and folded his hands on his chest. Selecting a shady spot under the same tree from which the ropes still dangled,he began digging in the soft earth with a flat rock.

  “Anybody going to help me?” he repeated, and his voice almost failed him.

  Hank sighed, “Well, they’re already cut down now, what difference does it make?”

  The cowboys stepped forward, each finding his own implement for digging, and helped dig the two graves.

  When the bodies had been laid in their shallow resting places, the nine men stood hatless around the graves. Cracker stood motionless for a moment, gazing down at the blanket-wrapped form of his old friend. He closed his eyes, and with head bowed, began to speak. “Lord, they done some bad things, but
they weren’t all bad. There was good in them too. Please reward them for the good and forgive them of the bad.” He paused for a long moment, “And forgive us too, Lord. Amen.”

  He shoved some of the moist, fresh dirt back into the hole with a scuffed boot. “Wherever you are, Gord,” he said softly, “take ‘er as she comes.”

  Chapter 11

  It was mid-morning when Hank, Cracker, and a puncher named Reef Hodges rode out of camp, taking Jeff with them on Billy Dell’s horse. The other riders remained behind to drive the rustled herd back to the Circle M.

  Reef Hodges was a young, good-looking cowboy in his early twenties, with bright blue eyes that twinkled beneath a shock of sandy hair. He was a couple of inches under six feet tall, with a slim but muscular build, and he seemed to possess a constitutional exuberance for life that could not be stifled for more than short periods of time. His genial spirit soon detached itself from the pall that overshadowed the group and he began talking to no one in particular, occasionally singing a rumbelo from some cowboy song or reciting home-grown poetry.

  On orders from Hank, Jeff’s hands had been tied to the saddle horn, and Reef held the reins of Billy’s horse so there would be no chance of Jeff escaping.

  Cracker and Hank rode in silence, each with his own thoughts, and as they followed a narrow trail that ran down the center of a long grassy valley, Reef hung back, creating a gap between himself and his two melancholy comrades—evidently aware his congenitally buoyant spirit and their present melancholy made an immiscible combination. The young cowboy introduced himself, not seeming to care if Jeff was a rustler or not. “I’m Reef Hodges.”

  “Bob Webb,” responded Jeff cautiously.

  “You’re new to this country.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  Jeff laughed ironically, “Yeah and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get a chance to get old in it.”